


Inked

by Spadesinspades



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Strip Tease, msaether's art, tattoolock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-25
Updated: 2013-02-25
Packaged: 2017-12-03 15:14:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/699615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spadesinspades/pseuds/Spadesinspades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just over a week ago, Kam and I were brought in on this awesome idea for taking over Red Pants Monday.</p><p>So here's our contribution to Red Thong Monday, in honour of the amazingly talented Reapersun, of whom we are both big fans.<br/>---<br/>Sherlock Holmes liked to watch.  It had started innocently enough, John supposed.  A simple command:  "Take off your shirt."  And he hadn't thought much of it.  Sherlock had wanted to examine his ink, perhaps, and the clothing had been an obvious barrier.  But as their relationship shifted ever so slightly, so too did Sherlock's motives.  And then, quite unexpectedly, John's did as well.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Inked

**Author's Note:**

  * For [reapersun](https://archiveofourown.org/users/reapersun/gifts).



Illustration by the amazing [msaether](http://msaether.tumblr.com).

##

"Take off your shirt." Sherlock issued his demand from the comfort of his leather chair. This was how it always began. There was no pattern to which day of the week it was or how many days passed between each incident. But it was always the same; Sherlock would watch and John would long for his touch. But it would never come. After a certain point, Sherlock would just rise from his chair, walk to his room and close the door. John would be left standing in the center of the flat, mostly naked, _aching_.

On this particular night, John was in the kitchen reaching for a mug when he heard Sherlock speak. But he knew once the command was given, it was expected to be obeyed. And John had been waiting; he was prepared. Tonight, things were going to change. He set the mug on the counter and padded barefoot into the sitting room. He took his place in front of the coffee table and looked over at Sherlock. His fingers were steepled under his chin and his gaze was unwavering.

"Take off your shirt, John."

It was a warning and it wouldn't be levied twice. John sighed.

"Sherlock, why can't we-"

"John." Sherlock's voice was sharp and low. He was not amused.

"Sod it," John replied. He reached for the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He tossed it backward on to the couch.

This was always the hardest part for John, standing under Sherlock's gaze, the feeling of being searched, scrutinized, studied. He watched as Sherlock's eyes telegraphed their path over his body, stopping on each tattoo, every freckle, and of course, his scar. The next command came after the inventory had been taken.

"Remove your trousers."

John's hands moved automatically to the button fly of his jeans. He pulled them open in one quick motion. Sherlock's eyebrow peaked for a moment before he caught himself and settled his regular, clinical, expression back into place. But John had seen it. His heart started beating more rapidly in his chest. Maybe his plan would work after all.

He released his grip on his jeans and they fell to the floor, settling around his ankles. He stepped out of them and kicked them off to the side. He watched Sherlock carefully as his gaze traveled up John's legs slowly. The moment of truth. Sherlock finally got an eyeful of John's pants, but this time, John had decided to conduct an experiment of his own. This time, they weren't his ordinary briefs. He was wearing a bright red thong.

Sherlock seemed to have frozen in place, eyes fixed on the area just below John's abdomen.

"I remember what comes next," John said, "in case you're having trouble."

Sherlock looked up at John, bewildered from his distraction, but remained silent.

"After this part, you usually tell me to turn around," John explained as he turned his back to Sherlock. This would be the real test, he supposed, seeing as the thong was a _little_ more revealing than his usual pants.

"That's, uh..." Sherlock faltered, then cleared his throat. "That's enough for tonight. You can get dressed."

Sherlock put his hands on the armrests of the chair and pushed himself into a standing position. John knew he was losing the fight. Sherlock would excuse himself to his bedroom as usual and they wouldn't see each other until the next day. It drove John crazy. Sherlock must being doing the exact same thing that John does when he goes upstairs. He can't understand why they aren't doing it together, or better yet, to each other. John wasn't going to let it happen anymore. He had to try.

"No," he said as he closed the distance between them. He put his hands on Sherlock's chest and shoved him backwards into the chair. The look of astonishment on Sherlock's face was almost worth the feeling of rising panic in John's chest. He had no idea what he was doing.

"Time for you to take some orders," John ventured. He licked his lips, nervous. "Take off your jacket."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes and stared up at John, who was now practically standing over him. He was still for a long moment and then, slowly, he leaned forward to slide his jacket off his shoulders. He pulled his arms out of the sleeves and let the garment fall to the floor.

"Good, right." John could barely think straight. He'd never even seen Sherlock in any state of undress. "Now, um... unbutton your shirt."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards. His hands rose to his collar and his long fingers worked at each button on the way down. John felt drunk with power. He finally understood the appeal of issuing commands to another person. He already knew what he wanted next.

"Now-" he began.

"No," replied Sherlock.

"What?"

"I said, no."

"You can't say no," John said, because he couldn't think of anything else.

"Tit for tat."

"I don't-"

"My turn," Sherlock explained. "Straddle me."

John's knees went weak. He was already close enough to the chair that he just had to lean forward and take hold of the armrests to shift himself into position. He slid his knees on either side of Sherlock's thighs and settled into his lap. Something about being nearly naked on top of a mostly fully clothed Sherlock re-routed his blood flow succinctly southward.

"Go on, then," Sherlock said at last.

"Your hands," John replied, without thinking, "put your hands on me."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. They'd never crossed his barrier before. Never touched one another, skin to skin, outside of an occasional brush of fingers as they passed a mug or mobile phone back and forth. Sherlock reached forward and touched John's chest, then slid his hands over his shoulders. His touch lingered over the places where the ink was raised under John's skin. 

John felt like he was being touched by a live wire. His nerves were dancing and his whole body hummed. He watched Sherlock's expression as he moved his hands around John's body - his back, his sides, his hips, his-

_Oh._

_Jesus._

"Sh-sherlock..."

"Kiss me, John," he said urgently.

John reached forward and took Sherlock's face in his hands. Greedily, he pressed his lips against Sherlock's mouth. They kissed for a moment, stiff and unsure, until Sherlock relaxed and yielded. Then it was the slip of a tongue, lips between teeth, soft and hungry, hard and insistent. Everything, all at once. John moaned into Sherlock's mouth and he felt him stiffen beneath him. John rolled his hips against his lap.

They broke apart, breathing heavily.

"Take off your shirt," John commanded. "Now."

There was an awkward bit of shifting as Sherlock tried to free his arms from his tailored shirt, but soon enough he was pulling it off and discarding it on the floor. John looked at him, for the first time not hidden beneath layers of tight shirts and fitted jackets, and forgot how to breathe.

Intricate patterns spilled down both arms. Sleeves full of colour and movement. John ghosted his fingers over the ink and felt Sherlock's hair raise up on his arms. Sherlock shivered gently, but a smile played across his lips. 

"I had no idea..." John said finally. "They're beautiful."

Sherlock leaned forward off the back of the chair to kiss John's collarbone. John was still busy being distracted by Sherlock's newly discovered tattoos. His eyes wandered down Sherlock's pale chest until the hint of some script work caught his attention, peeking out over the top of his trousers. John looked up, questioning.

"More?" he asked.

"More." Sherlock confirmed.

"May-" John started.

Sherlock shook his head. "My turn." He grinned up at John.

"Find them," he commanded, unzipping his trousers.


End file.
